


Stars of New York

by Bimo



Category: Castle, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gap Filler, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:44:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bimo/pseuds/Bimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to track down Emma Swan in New York, Hook runs into some locals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars of New York

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Characters and situations owned by Disney and ABC.
> 
>  **Thanks to:** Astrogirl2, for volunteering to proofread. Also, SelenaK for inspiring show discussion. :-)
> 
>  **Author's Note:** While written as a crossover with ABC's _Castle_ , it's not necessary to know anything about _Castle_ to enjoy the story.

STARS OF NEW YORK  
by Bimo

If he sat down, say over a bottle of rum, and counted his losses, Killian Jones would not consider himself a lucky man. One hell of a pirate, a dashingly handsome survivor? Well, yes. But lucky? Not quite, though distant observers might think so, looking down on him, judging his fate from high above. Adrift more than once in his life, Killian has always found some guiding star, some floating barrel to hold on. So why should New York be any different, he ponders, knowing that he must navigate this strange, hungry realm of towering stone, brick and glass. 

At eight o'clock on an autumn night the city seems an ocean of electric brightness and noises. An ocean of people, really, with Swan somewhere among them, spending her days and raising her boy Henry, though not as the woman that Killian first met, the swan who climbed into the skies on a beanstalk. Once he has found her, she won't recognize his face, will not listen. Why would she, really, with her memories changed and altered? But first problems first, one step, one obstacle after the other. 

Killian's feet begin to feel heavy from walking. He only stops briefly, though, when around a corner the street opens up into some sort of clearing, a square, complete with trees, benches and in its centre even a fountain surrounded by lawn. On the square's northern edge bright colourful signs stand out against dark, gray buildings, announcing what must be this world's version of taverns and inns. Maybe it's the absence of cars, maybe the open space and the patches of green, but the people that walk by appear somewhat less rushed here. One of the benches, right under a lantern, seems unoccupied. He could take another look at the travelers' map that he had nicked from a newspaper stand earlier this evening. Think, take a breath. There will be none of Cora's magic spell shortcuts to make things easy for him this time, only his own wits and determination. 

Printed on the map's back it says that New York provides food, shelter and occupation for over eight million people. A true and mighty Leviathan, if he has ever faced one, only to be beaten with tricks. So he reckons that getting hold of one of these all-knowing internet telephone machines that he has seen people use back in Storybrooke should be his first task tomorrow. And if typing Emma Swan's name into a search field doesn't lead anywhere, he can still try locating Swan's boy Henry. After all, the child must attend school or perhaps be engaged in some public sports club. 

"If you are looking for the Orion, it's that way," a woman's voice calls, slightly nasal and obviously directed at him, so he looks up. The lady in question is tall. Long, brown hair, rather beautiful face. Back in the Enchanted Forest, Killian would have assumed from her posture that she was royal. 

"Pardon?" 

"The Orion cinema, for the Pirate Films Night. We are going there too." 

For a second, he is too confused to react. 

"You could come with us, if you like. By the way, what a great costume!" 

Jolly admiration springs from her words. Her male companion, maybe her husband, maybe an escort, seems equally cheerful. 

"First time in New York?" he asks. 

"Actually, the second." 

"It's just that you've got the classic overwhelmed tourist stare. No offense. This city always does this to people. Now, what?" 

Not that Killian wants to, but he finds himself rising, for he knows bloody well that only self-assured, generous people hand out offers like this on a whim. And yes, he is right. From up close the man strikes him as wealthy and clearly on his way to middle-aged heaviness. Good, unspoiled food on his plate every day. His brown woolen coat is of a superior quality that only rich folks like Regina and Mr. Gold would be wearing. 

"Richard Castle," the stranger says. In each of his movements, his face, there's a younger, sharper man shining through. Playful, observant. Some of the better, more worthy merchant captains whose vessels Killian had raided over the years had been exactly like that in their prime. 

"Kate Becket." 

"Killian Jones. Honored to meet you, madam." 

To amuse and to please her, he performs a mock bow, all movements slightly exaggerated. Successfully, it seems, as she laughs. Good. Telling his actual birth name should not cause any trouble; in this world it is as good as any other alias he could come up with. From the books in Belle's library Killian has learned that this playwright called Barrie, who got Pan's very essence so frightfully right, for whatever reason lists him as James. No proper surname, either, just Hook, Captain James Hook. 

"Mmm, Killian, that's Irish, isn't it?" Castle asks. "Some seventh century missionary to southern Germany, if I'm not mistaken. You know, I had to research the whole saint business for one of my early Derrick Storm novels, _Sacred Storm_ , but that was years ago," he goes on. 

Perhaps it is good that Killian never gets a chance to react to this gibberish, although he would hardly dare call it a blessing. Not if the diversion is paid for with the blood and bones of an innocent. All blink of an eye stuff, really; happening so very fast. One hell of a thud, followed by screams. Castle running towards the injured girl, holding her, calling for help on his phone. It is Kate who first sprints after the fugitive. 

Once an ambulance has arrived the scene, Killian thinks "screw all convenient chaos, no matter how useful". He has been there himself, knows how it feels to lie on the ground; hit, frightened, in pain. 

Reckless cyclist, attempted hit-and-run, the traffic cops' report will state later that evening. Perpetrator captured by two witnesses, one of them being Detective Katherine Beckett, NYPD, twelfth precinct, the other a tourist from Ireland. 

"Thank you for doing the all the talking, Kate," he says, while a uniformed officer is finishing off his last bit of paper work. The police car's lights are still turned on, their red, white and blue colours reflecting in the fountain's water pool. Kate puts a loose strand of hair back into place. 

"Well, I guess it comes with the job. I wonder what the drug test will say," she adds after a pause. "That guy was high as a kite. I'm not sure I would have managed to hold him down any longer, if you hadn't come after me." 

"Nah, that was just instinct." 

"Very good instinct, then," Castle says. His voice makes Killian startle, he had not noticed that Castle had already come back from the ambulance. Quietly all three of them watch the driver shutting the ambulance's orange-striped back doors, then walking up to the front and finally driving away. Apparently most useless bystanders have seen enough now, for they, too, are leaving. 

"Rick, did the paramedics tell you if she'll be all right?" 

"Well, only that it's too early to say without a proper CT. You know what it's like with concussion. Her elbow is definitely broken, though. If anyone ever did that to Alexis..." 

"Alexis?" 

"My daughter. She is already off to university. Columbia," Castle hastens to add, as if expecting the name to ring any bells. Probably it must be very prestigious to have your child enrolled at that place, especially if it's a girl. 

"She must be outstandingly smart." 

"The smartest and sweetest." 

After a brief, awkward moment in which Lord knows what is going through Castle's head, the man turns toward Kate. "Honey, I don't think I'm in the right mood for Errol Flynn, anymore. Anyway, it's ten past nine. By now, they should be a good twenty minutes into the movie. Even with commercials and stuff." 

"What then?" 

"Let go to Luigi's. I mean, it's right here, and the food's nice. What about you, Killian? Fancy Italian? Come on, hero of the day, you are invited!" 

The whole blasted situation makes it hard to decline, so Killian says yes, feeling trapped and rather unsure where "yes" could lead to. It has been ages, oceans, whole worlds ago, since anyone last offered the Dread Pirate Jones, the grand Captain Hook such hospitality out of sheer kindness instead of fear or cold calculation. How odd, Killian ponders, that at least for this evening he should turn out just some clean, unsoiled page in these people's diary. 

Throughout dinner he tries his best to uphold their misguided good impression of him, listens and observes more than he speaks. One or two of his own, more good-natured seafaring anecdotes he reserves for dessert. They are events that could have taken place anytime, anywhere, like Turtle Island or the night of the luminescent squids. 

"It must be great to have your own sailing ship, even if it's just for offering tourist cruises in the Caribbean," Kate says. In his tales, Killian has made the Jolly Roger sound much smaller and newer to veil her true purpose. 

"Some more pastry, Killian?" 

"No, thank you. It's delicious, but I fear I was already full after the sea bream." 

"Drinks then? I could use a glass of grappa right now." Castle reaches for the wine list, then passes it over. A few of names that he reads strike Killian as rather familiar, but most other drinks he has never tasted or heard of. In the end he finds himself ordering one of the whiskies that is described as mellow, aromatic, ripened in sherry casks. He'd rather keep his rum habit private; his hosts for the evening have not yet seen his true nature. Maybe they will even trust him enough to do him a favour. 

The timing feels right. What better moment to ask than during the brief pause before the final round of drinks will arrive? He would only have to trick and deceive them a little. So, off he goes. 

He starts small, with a puzzled look as if remembering something. With sudden alertness he reaches for his left vest pocket, then, acting ever more alarmed, for the right. "Oh, damn. Please, no," he swears, his voice barely, just barely loud enough for Castle and Kate to get the exact words. 

"What's the matter? Smartphone? Hotel keys?" Castle asks. 

"The address of a friend I am supposed to meet. I had written it down on a piece of paper. But I think I must have lost it when we pursued that bicycle fellow." Killian swallows, lowers his eyes, then looks up again, to imply that he's had a sudden idea. 

"Could I perhaps ask you a favour? You wouldn't be so kind to check out a name on your smart phone for me? I don't have one myself, because with my hand I keep finding them rather impractical." 

Though he is sure that Kate and her husband must have noted the lifeless black glove by now, and so far only have been too reasonable to comment on it, Killian is waving his left. 

"Sure, no problem, but please tell me one thing," Kate gently teases, "Special lady friend or guy friend?" 

The question is leaving Killian somewhat speechless, though he gathers it is meant in good humour. 

"Oh, come on, deary, you are positively blushing." 

"All right, lady friend," he admits. "Her name is Swan, Emma Swan. Surname spelled like the bird." 

"Okay, then. Let's see." 

Kate takes out her phone and touches its surface. Somewhat impatient Killian watches her fingers slide over its screen. "She lives right here in New York City, right, Killian?" 

A few more seconds pass. 

"Roughly your age? Late twenties, early thirties? Blonde, and apparently running a small bounty hunting agency?" 

"Well, yes. That sounds exactly like her! Fantastic! How did you..?" 

"Actually It wasn't that difficult." She is turning the phone's display towards him. 

"There are four or five Emma Swans alone in Manhattan, but look, it is this news article which is generating the most hits. 'Emma Swan always gets her man'," Kate quotes from the article's headline. "The second it popped up, I just had a hunch she might be the swan you are looking for." 

And really, amidst a lot of fleeting, barely readable small print, there's a picture of a proud-looking Emma, smiling confidently in a way that Killian has never seen her smile back in Storybrooke. With Swan's image so close, yet out of reach, he can feel his heart shifting and turning. 

Kate draws back the phone and puts it down on the table. 

"Rick, do you have your blue felt pen with you, the one that you always use for autographs?" she asks. 

"Yeah, sure." 

Taking another look at the phone's display, she grasps for Castle's pen and then writes something down on a napkin. The exact location and phone number of Emma Swan's office, as it turns out. 

"Here, for you, Killian. And even waterproof," she adds triumphantly. Finally, their drinks arrive and they toast. 

As he finishes the last few drops of whisky, Killian knows that the sudden lightness and warmth he experiences with every fibre, in every vein of his body is stemming not from his drink but a far greater and ever more wondrous source. Plain, simple hope. 


End file.
